ribbons
by what do dogs do to wolves
Summary: AU/AH  the twilight characters share in a merry christmas, even in the midst of tragedy. canon pairings. rated for swearing and content.  repost


**ribbons:** a twilight christmas story**  
>summary:<strong> [_AU/AH_] the twilight characters share in a merry christmas, even in the midst of tragedy.**  
>disclaimer<strong>: "happy xmas / war is over" is copyright John Lennon (and the Plastic Ono Band)  
><strong>an: **posted this a year ago, didn't like it. was going to edit it, but I fell out of love with writing it. re-posting it for posterity. cheers, merry christmas and whatever you celebrate.

* * *

><p>— <em>i gave birth to the messiah and all i got was this lousy t-shirt<em> —

**part i ... Christmas Eve**

* * *

><p>— <em>for joints, aches, and child support pain<em>

Bella barely remembered her last "real" Christmas.

All she knew was that she was too busy holding on to that one last scrap of happiness before her life was put up on the court table and volleyballed back and forth by brown nosing lawyers. At the time (she must have been six or seven at least), she sort of imagined two Christmases and double the presents, but that fell through as her mother struggled to pay rent and bills year to year. Her father, on the other hand, seemed to think December's child support check was enough. Leave it to her mom and dad to get divorced on Christmas, she thought. Even if they had been separated for months before the final sign and spit... but still.

Last Christmas was a bit... different. For one thing, she was back under her father's frozen roof in Forks. Two, the feeling in the air as the two sat around the tree was _stifling_. You could look in through the front window and ask "Do you guys even know each other?" It was just _that_ awkward.

Bella couldn't lie to herself. As much as she liked to grope, she missed her mom's child-like playfulness and spontaneity. ...maybe not so much the incessant mood swings and lack of parental responsibility. She was definitely going to smack her mother's new boy toy for stealing her fun mother away. After all, Phil suggested and even funded the move. Whatever, her mother was just being a gold digging... well, let's not go there.

Her father, on the other hand, was...

Boring?

He was asking himself that question, too. She tried not to think of it; after all, it was her decision to visit, study in Forks for a year or so, catch up with the Joneses. If she liked the atmosphere enough, she might even stick around Washington State for college (which she did). She just didn't expect the air between him and her to be so dry.

Charlie's gift was... well-meant.

"A printer?" Was her printer broken? It looked like something he got from the evidence locker down at the station. There were dents along the side of it, giving it the true used look—one notch above ten-pound paperweight.

"It was free," Charlie said gruffly. Billy goat's gruff, they joked. Whenever Billy rolled into town in his black van (the special ops van, as it was known), the station howled with that. "I figured you'd like it, like the truck."

The truck was free, yes, but it broke down a month ago.

Bella didn't have anything else to say about her lovely gift. "Well, thanks." It kind of disturbed her how rotten she felt about the present. "Really." She should be grateful rather than bitchy—after all, it's Christmas with her dad for once—but it was a printer from an evidence locker, confiscated as a murder weapon or something awful like that (then again, who kills someone with a _printer_?) At least, it looked like a murder weapon. It was an older model, more fit for an office in 1996 than a high school senior. She didn't have the heart to ask.

"If you don't like it," he said. "I can return it."

After all, he was doing his best, and she should, too.

"I said it's fine, Dad."

"Hmm."

Right?

At least Christmas would be a lot less awkward this year. This year, both her parents were getting simple Christmas cards. To be honest, it was one of the best Christmases she's had in years.

She had finally found her niche in a dingy Seattle University dorm, away from her polarizing father and into a circle of hipsters and potheads. But with the college activities and tuition went the lack of a plentiful source of income (one of the few things she really appreciated her dad for having, much unlike her mom's shaky tattoo parlor business and at-home daycare that completely destroyed Bella's appreciation for children), and Bella's pockets were _empty_.

"Well, unless someone's fixing for a dollar menu item," Bella mused, passing by store windows on her way back to the train station. She had absolute zilch this year—just enough to snag some cheap gifts, gift cards and cheesy Hallmark notes. "God, I am _so_ broke." She pushed a loose strand of her mousy brown hair back under her beret.

Speaking of Hallmark notes, she heard some lilting music up ahead. The faintest trace of a soulful voice edged out the music.

"What is that?"

* * *

><p>— <em>happy xmas (war is over)<em>

A tiny crowd gathered around his banged up Casio and its stand on the corner of Washington and State Street. Some folks tossed coins and wishes into his keyboard case, but most of them were standing around clapping. It was only a simple piano arrangement of a Lennon classic, anyway. Then again, Christmas was one of those times when people were somewhat content with their misery.

There he was, tapping away at false ivory. And for what?

"_So this is Christmas_," he began. "_And what have you done?_"

He hadn't done anything, really. Write a couple pieces of shitty music, sure. Not that it amounted to anything but bar hops and stagnant open mic nights. But any publicity was good publicity, even if the local patrons don't give a rat's ass.

"_Another year over._"

Just as uneventful as the last.

"_And a new one just begun._"

He wasn't looking forward to it in particular. He was thinking of going straight up Tyler Durden if his "rock star" dream nosedived and his white collar job choked him to death. Well, maybe not that far. Blowing up buildings just wasn't his thing.

"_And so this is Christmas,_" he sang, watching the crowd grow and their smiles widen. "_I hope you have fun._"

If there was one thing holding up his will to sing on street corners in 5 degree weather, it was those smiles. He really ought to have made those CDs with his music on them... if only he had enough material to produce with.

"_The near and the dear ones..." _

It was sad to say how few near and dear ones he had left.

_"...The old and the young!_"

Or young and old ones, for that matter.

"_A very merry Christmas, and a happy New Year._"

Some people were singing along by the next verse, a thing Edward had only dreamed of happening on the big stage in front of a screaming crowd.

"_Let's hope it's a good one..." _

He figured this might be his biggest crowd ever, too.

_"Without any fear_."

The music died down as he made his way to the last note, but the crowd's cheers were just beginning. "Thanks a lot everyone!" He waved to his twenty or so fans. "Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, etcetera, etcetera." Edward shook some hands as the crowd dispersed. There were a few stragglers, but when it was apparent Edward wouldn't be playing for a little while, the corner was free again.

"There they go," he sighed.

Except for one last wayfaring stranger with pretty brown eyes and the hair to match.

"Hey," she said, waving shyly.

"Hi," he said back.

"Was that you with the music?"

Edward let that one sink in. "Yes that was me." Rarely were girls interested in his music. Sure, they were all over his brooding musician attitude and boyish good looks, but not so much his actual (self-professed) talent. "I'm sorry you missed it."

"No, it's fine," she said. "It sounded great."

"Yeah," he said breezily. "It's nothing special."

"When are you playing again?" She bit her lower lip.

"I'm not sure." Edward gave her a pithy smile. "You're just gonna have to wait like the rest of them," he said, pointing to the former crowdsfolk as they walked away. "I don't do personal greeting cards, lady." He walked back to his Casio.

"It's not like I was asking," she shrugged. "I guess I'll be going, then."

"Bye."

"Bye."

She was about halfway down Washington Street when Edward called her back.

"Hey girl!" He ran after her, panting. "Wait up!"

She turned to find the keyboard man (_boy_, she thought) in front of her, studying his pensive green eyes. "Oh, it's you."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Listen, why don't you come and I'll..."

"What?" She crossed her arms impatiently.

"Come back to my Casio with me, and I'll play you a song." Edward ran a hand through his bronze auburn hair nervously. "Just for you."

"Just for me, huh?" He watched her eyes as she played with that thought.

"It will take five minutes, trust me."

She smiled. "All right," she said, walking past Edward and missing the little victory dance he did. "But I better not miss the next train in twenty minutes." The girl turned around, stopping Edward in his tracks. "Just so you know, I'm Bella."

"Edward," he said, holding out a hand she ignored. "Okay, then." They had arrived at the street corner again, and Edward quickly scrambled to set up his keyboard.

"What do you want to hear, Bella?" He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue.

Her reply took on a caustic tone. "I don't know, aren't you supposed to know?"

"Okay, okay, chill," he said. "What about—"

"Look out!"

"What?" Edward scratched his chin. "I've never heard of that one, girl. What band is it by?"

"Oh my God, you idiot, move!" She ran over to his side, tugged on his arm hard.

Of course, he was too caught up in trying to impress this girl. "What?"

Edward finally figured it out when he saw his keyboard's innards strewn across the curb, saw the smoking wrecked car nearly split in half by the light post.

"Holy shit." He looked at Bella, her face gone a whiter shade of pale. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." She looked over at the wreck just a few feet away from them. "Are you?"

"No," he breathed, patting himself down. "I think I feel a whole lot better."

She heard police sirens a few streets down, saw an ambulance whip past them. There was a crowd gathering, even. "Your piano. It's—"

"Fucked up beyond repair, I know." Edward looked back at the scene, then at her. She was containing a case of the giggles. "Better it than me."

"You owe me a song, Edward." Bella looked him square in the eyes. "You know that, right?"

He chuckled. "You bet I do."

_War is over... _

_If you want it_...

* * *

><p>— <em>in the sky with diamonds<em>

For others, luck was just a myth. For many, luck was just as measurable a factor as time.

For this girl, however, it was as if she had walked under a ladder that was over a crack in front of a black cat that just broke a mirror. At first glance, you'd think she was blessed (and anyone with looks good enough to give the whole street whiplash is) but behind the pretty face and easy smiles, the poor girl was cursed.

And I mean _cursed_.

The so-called Hale curse hung around her like a twisted little monkey demon, laughing whenever things went wrong and fucking with everything when it was just perfect.

Yes, it seems that Rosalie Hale was always just short of perfect, much to her dismay. Even at her best, there was always something that had to go horrifically wrong.

Her mother had always been assuring Rosalie and her brothers that there was no such thing, but they knew better than that. Besides, her mother married into the family. Sure, most of her grandmother's stories were definitely crockery, but her father's family history was riddled with so much tragedy and misfortune it's hard _not_ to believe the curse. Yes, the shadow of catastrophe towered high over the Hale family, tracing its slimy roots back to their Irish heritage and beyond.

"_It's all in the family, dear_," said the voice of her dead Grandma Lily ringing through her pretty skull. She remembered how that toothless smile would form in a bath of wrinkles, long ago when she was a pretty little girl. "_A mistake your great-great-great or so grandfather made when he double-crossed a woods witch. The bitch cast a curse on his family name, a spell that spells tragedy as it snakes down and across the family tree. Very soon, it'll get down to the roots and chop 'er down at last._" Grandma stopped to catch her breath and take one last drag on her cigarette."_And sometimes, if the stars are right, it passes over ya as if ya were dipped in lamb's blood._" Rosalie didn't know what kind of lamb's blood Nana Lily was talking about, but it had to be some strong shit to ward off this "curse."

Her grandfather had been lucky in that respect—he survived the economic backlash of the Great Depression by chance: selling his stock the day before it would all become worthless and putting his feet into a corporate shill. Too bad his death was contrived by his oldest son and her uncle. Her grandfather's children, on the other hand, weren't so lucky. One by one, her aunts and uncles were all crossed off Death's grim list with gruesome smiles and rattling bones. Rosalie's father was the only one still alive, but even he was in questionable condition after two heart attacks.

Rosalie thought her grandmother was lucky, too. She had outlived her husband and most of her children, but she died sputtering tongues as dementia slowly jellified the neurons in her brain and old age wore her down. The infant-like sucking of the air her grandma made in the days before her passing just a few years ago left Rosalie disturbed and deeply aware of her own mortality, even more so than usual. After all, she just turned 21 and had her life ahead of her.

So when that bus on State Street whizzed in front of her, close enough to cut her down like a tree, her short life flashed before her eyes several times and her heart nearly stopped right there.

"Oh my God," she muttered, catching her breath. "What a fitting way to fulfill my destiny."

The next car was about to flip her over and send the last of her Christmas shopping (at least twin ten year old brothers were easy to shop for) flying across three zip codes but stopped short of tapping her ass. Several more cars honked and swerved to avoid Rosalie as she made her way across busy State Street. Okay, maybe she should have crossed at the street at the crosswalk (hell, she should have gotten her Christmas shopping a whole lot sooner), but it wasn't like she could go back now.

Besides, it was already too late.

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear death's taunting laugh ringing across the skyscrapers.

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the unmistakable sound of metal on metal.

Rosalie looked towards that distance and—

"Oh shit."

_All I could say was _Oh shit_?_

She didn't hear the screeching car, didn't feel the wind as it got knocked out of her, didn't see her heels fly.

Didn't even hear herself scream.

She counted her bags as they flew into the air.

_Seven_?

No.

_Eight._

* * *

><p>— <em>dead on arrival<em>

Christmas...

He loved everything about the damn holiday, even the family he would put up with. Hell, that was the best part. After all, he was (and still is!) his cousins' favorite cousin, his aunts' and uncles' favorite nephew, his grandpa and grandma's favorite grand kid, and so on.

Well, maybe was a slight exaggeration.

"_Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg..._"

Emmett McCarty couldn't think of a holiday more inviting except for Thanksgiving (oh, how he loved the food, loved the family football games, loved his relatives sitting around too drunk and full to move). The only thing Emmett hated (hate was such a strong word, too) about his favorite holiday (maybe after St. Patty's now that he could toss back drinks legally) were those awful sweaters his grandma Lucy knitted, but that was one small sacrifice against a backdrop of the family glue of holiday cheer and consumerism.

"_...Bat mobile lost its wheel, and Joker got away, hey!_"

Yes, Emmett loved holidays, even half-baked ones like Arbor Day. Mostly because they got him off of school.

But Christmas was special.

"_Batman's in the kitchen, cooking up some chicken..._"

Too bad this one was gonna suck.

"_Robin's in the hall…_"

"Quit your singing, McCarty." His shift partner Don Michaels made little noise, but when he did it was wise to listen. "I know you're green, boy, but this Christmas expect to see a lot of red." Mike was huge and had a mustache that rivaled Stalin in awesome. The bastard was pushing fifty and could still take down a bear with his bare hands. Maybe even two. "Or at the very least, some handbag positives."

The radio on the dashboard crackled like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. It was likely that this call was for a fire... or an old lady who had fallen and couldn't get up.

"Don, we've got a situation down here. Two MVCs and an MVA." the ambulance radio bleeped. "I'm talking negative vehicle to vehicle interface, and plenty of it. Cops are dealing with an FSRA. We've got some body pile-up down here..."

Don kicked the ambulance into drive. "Get your ass in gear, McCarty. We've got a battlefield." The big ol' ambulance bucked a parked car as it jerked away from Don's squeeze of a parallel park.

Emmett nodded, hooking up his seatbelt and clutching it for dear life. "Right-o, Don."

"Merry Christmas, McCarty." They bounced in their seats as Don drove over the biggest pot hole this side of Seattle.

"And Happy New Years to you, Don," Emmett said, bracing himself for his first Christmas "gift."

— _peeing on the wall _

It all started when the doorbell rang last Sunday afternoon. Alice sleepily made her way to the door, not expecting a house call from the Army.

...

_"Why hello there," the officer at the door said. "I'm Captain Michael Newton, Company C, 3rd Battalion, 22nd Infantry, of Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. Do you chance happen to be Mrs. Jasper Whitlock?"_

_"I most certainly am," she said, lifting her chin higher to meet his gaze. There was a telling sadness in his eyes. _

_"Ah, good." He smiled pithily. "May I come in? I've an important message straight from the Secretary of the Army."_

_"Of course." Alice opened the door wide to let Captain Newton in. "You must be cold, Captain."_

_"Not at all," he said solemnly. "Wonderful house you have here, ma'am."_

_Alice giggled. "May I take your coat?"_

_"I'll be fine, thank you." He cleared his throat, looking around. "Now, on to that message, shall we? You might want to take a seat, Mrs. Whitlock."_

_She took no such seat. "Please, do go on." _

_She knew what was coming from the moment the bell rang. _

_The captain sighed and began slowly. "The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, Sgt. Major Jasper Whitlock of Company B, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment, was killed in action Afghanistan on December the 19th. Whitlock attempted to intercept Taliban gunfire as two enemy insurgents attempted to carry away two wounded soldiers. Unfortunately, neither of the wounded soldiers or Sgt. Major Whitlock survived."_

_"I see," said Alice, tight and composed. She would not let this "messenger" of the Secretary of the Army see what not even Jasper had the privilege to see. _

_"The Secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss." Captain Newton dipped his head. "Your husband's efforts will not have been in vain, that I assure you, Mrs. Whitlock." He pressed a neatly folded uniform forward, topped off with a shiny medal of Distinguished Service. _

_"I understand, Captain." Alice gathered up her husband's articles._

_She spent the next five minutes filling out a worksheet chronicling her husband's life and death on a Xeroxed worksheet. Alice figured they had piles of these at whatever office Captain Newton was from, wondered how many wives and mothers, fathers and brothers (sisters, too) had to fill out one of these papers out on a daily basis._

_She didn't dare complete that thought as she handed back the Casualty Notification paper. "Thank you, Captain Newton."_

_"No, thank you Mrs. Whitlock." He held out a hand that she shook limply. "If you do excuse me, I must be on my way. On behalf of the Secretary of the Army, please accept the United States Army's deepest condolences."_

_She nodded as she watched the door close and made absolute sure Captain Newton had driven off and away to deliver more bad news. _

...

Alice Whitlock lit a cigarette—one of the habits she promised Jasper she would quit after their wedding. Not that she ever really quit, of course. Like I said, there were other things Sergeant Major Whitlock had not been privileged to in his marriage to Alice. She was the type of girl that could go from zero to sixty in less than five seconds.

And now she wasn't so sure if she could put the pieces of herself back together once again. It took all the king's horses and all the king's men to do that the first time, and now the king was dead.

"He isn't dead," she declared.

If he wasn't dead, then at least she was.

Maybe she had just always been dead.

She had attached a wedding photo from last year to the visor of her car ever since he was deployed. There he was, all decked out in his brilliant army tunic without a single thread out of place.

_How could you leave me like this?_

They just had been so happy.

_Just like everyone always does._

Her wedding day was one of the few times she could call herself happy.

_Asshole._

This Christmas, she would be just as happy. (_Seventy_)

This Christmas, she would do her best to share her share of Christmas joy. (_Eighty_)

It was a good thing her wedding dress still fit her. It even fit a lot better than her actual wedding day. (_Ninety_)

"He's not dead!"

(_uh oh spaghettios_)

There was a loud thump, and maybe Alice would have seen the girl she rolled over with her two ton car.

"_HE'S NOT DEAD!_"

And suddenly the blaring sirens became

_"Oh my God, somebody_—"

a choir of doves.

_"Please call 911!_"

Screams

_"Jesus fucking Christ, that car_—_"_

of happiness.

With that, Alice flashed a deranged smile.

"Merry Christmas, Jasper."

* * *

><p>— <em>mission accomplished<em>

Terminal 3 of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on Christmas Eve bubbled over with eager families waiting for the military plane to touch down on that sweet tarmac and bring those troops home. At least a hundred of his fellow troops from the 503rd Infantry Regiment were on the flight with Sergeant Major Jasper Whitlock, all of them dressed to the nines in classic army fatigue.

It would only be a matter of minutes before Ma Whitlock would be itching to see her son, only a matter of minutes before Jasper would see Alice again.

Make that seconds.

The plane pulled into the international terminal smoothly and Jasper's seat belt was off in a heartbeat. He stepped off the plane, feeling the cold penetrate the air inside closed jet bridge. Home was only a few steps away.

"Hey, Whitlock," another soldier said. "Won't you look at that?" The window at the jet bridge cab allowed a keen view of light snow.

"It's snowing," Jasper said. "Wonderful."

Jasper moved on, every step bringing him closer to what would almost certainly be the best Christmas since the one where he got that Nintendo 64. Scratch that, the best Christmas _ever_.

Screams erupted from the crowds standing vigil as Jasper led the line off the jet bridge. He had the biggest smile on his face as he saw those signs welcoming the troops home and most of all, his family.

"Oh my lord and heaven, it's him!" Beth Whitlock elbowed her spry old father Gabe, squealing. "My Jasper's alive!" She waved to him with one hand, wiping away tears of joy with the other. "He's really alive!"

"I've got eyes, you know." Grandpa Whitlock was a tough bastard, you see.

Jasper swung over to his family, only to have to wrestle off his mother's hugs and kisses. "Merry Christmas, ma." Meanwhile, he hugged her classic guy style—with one arm. "Love you."

"I love you too, dear." Ma Whitlock slowly let her son go, making sure he was indeed standing in front of her at that very moment. "They told us you'd been killed! It was a horrible four hours, thinking you were dead."

"I heard," he said. The Army seemed to have inadvertently mixed up Whitlock with Wheelock, one of the soldiers who really did die. "It just sucks I didn't get actually get Distinguished Service Medal."

"We're just so happy you're here," she said. "Right, Dad?"

His grandfather was as distant as ever, but even Jasper knew the ice was melting _just_ a little bit. He turned to him with a salute. "Colonel."

Gabe returned with his own salute. "Sergeant." Gabriel Whitlock was a 'Nam vet, and damn did it show in every wrinkle, age spot, and white hair on his head. "Major." Gabe stood in his own shady uniform, eye to eye with his grandson. "How's Afghanistan?"

"Dry," Jasper replied. "Lonely. Cold. Doesn't compare to 'Nam, I'm sure."

Gabe took out a cigar. "Nothing ever does."

"Dad, not here!" Ma Whitlock snatched the cigar from her father. "Oh, Jasper, if only your father was here to see you." Officer Jack "Pops" Whitlock died trying to put down an armed robbery of a major Seattle bank. The man was a hero without asking.

"He'd be here if he wasn't a glory-hogging dishfuck," Gabe ruffed. "We all know Jack didn't have to—"

Ma Whitlock elbowed her father again. "Enough, Dad."

Speaking of absences, Jasper noticed a huge one. "Ma," he said as all the welcoming died down. "Where's Alice?"

"Alice?"

Let it be known from this point on that Beth Whitlock did not like her son's wife one tiny bit.

"Oh, that Alice." But she was at the very least concerned with Jasper's well-being. "To be honest, I haven't the slightest idea. We called her phone, too. Nothing."

"And your mother isn't just saying so because she thinks that girl is an insipid crazy bitch with the loosest loo in the world!" Gabe yelled that loud enough for the next family to hear and cover up their little children's ears. If he could see, then he most definitely could not hear.

Beth scowled. "Dad!"

"What?" Grandpa Whitlock shrugged. "I didn't say nothing we didn't know already. Besides, I thought that Anna was a nice lady." He winked at Jasper. "A lot better than your mother and grandma ever were, too."

"Her name's Alice," Jasper said. "And thank you, Colonel—I guess." He turned back to his mother. "Why wouldn't she answer—"

Then it hit him like a big pizza pie.

Well, not really. Ma Whitlock's ring tone just happened to be Dean Martin's "That's Amore," and her phone just went off right now.

She picked it up. "Hello?"

"Is it telemarketers?" Gabe asked. "Those money-swindling bastards better not be trying to sell me off about some Nigerian cousin or whatever again." He spat. "Lousy stinking dodo brains."

"Oh my God," Ma Whitlock gasped. "Really?"

Jasper frowned. "What is it?"

"It's your wife," said his mother hollowly. "She's been in a terrible accident."

* * *

><p>— <strong>an:**

Now, let me ask: Is this too tragic for a Christmas story? I mean, we've got a body count of 2 (3 if you count Edward's Casio) here. I almost feel terrible. Read and review, folks. Eggnog will be provided. Flames will roast chestnuts on an open fire.


End file.
